


A Field in Bloom

by notoriousjae



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: And also learns how to fall in love, Edelgard learns how flowers grow (not really a euphemism), F/F, Flowers, HARD, Oops, Tumblr Prompt, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29463777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoriousjae/pseuds/notoriousjae
Summary: It suits her, Edelgard often thinks now that she knows her--it seems fitting that Byleth Eisner is a gardenerIt reminds her of how her mother used to look, quietly laughing in Enbarr, fingers curving around the red of a legendary flower. Before her laughter was bright and sad.Maybe if you love someone deeply enough, Edelgard, your love will bloom like a flower.Edelgard learns that love, like flowers, takes time to bloom and that it takes knowing hands to cultivate it. F!Edeleth fic.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg & My Unit | Byleth, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 11
Kudos: 107





	A Field in Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> Someone shot me this prompt on my [ Tumblr ](https://notoriousjae.tumblr.com). Despite the fact that I haven't posted on there in years, I do still browse so...I filled it, anyways. 
> 
> The prompt was "Valentine's Day fic???? ;3;" so what's more appropriate for a Valentine's Day Fic than flowers??
> 
> I shamelessly wrote this instead of updating _Love is a Little Box _which you have every right to be annoyed about if you're reading it. But it will get updated shortly. :')__
> 
> _We stan (1) in love Edelgard in this house._
> 
> Also what's a timeline? Ignore what month the game ends.

It starts small, like most things do--like a seed clattering from a pocket into unkempt soil, being tilled and turned and scattered about time until a field of flowers blooms in its wake. 

It starts with a flower. 

\--

“Oh, Professor, I didn’t expect--”

The dining hall catches sunlight along its tall windows in a warmth that was never captured in the cold halls of Enbarr or Faerghus in Edelgard's youth. So much of the world was built of steel and stone, but these halls exude the flavor of Earth in their tints, so coated with different shadows of brown that Edelgard had initially assumed the great cafeteria nestled by the Church’s pond had resembled a tree without leaves--a barren place desolate in Winter.

No place held warmth in their walls to Edelgard--and she had hardly expected the Church to. 

But it’s past Summer, now, and the sunlight melts into the brown walls with familiarity, the scent of desert lingering in the air from the meal she’d just eaten alongside Dorothea, and Edelgard is struck by the notion that unexpected things were becoming the expected in Garreg Mach.

Because a familiar hand has appeared in front of her and a singular flower sits inside of it, its stem cut from the bottom and leaves carefully prepared by unwavering fingertips. Steady. Capable of felling a hundred enemies without a single tremble, or apparently quite capable of culling...a flower.

For Edelgard.

Any retort of surprise at seeing the Professor, whose features are calm and as steady as that hand, is dwarfed by her surprise at _this_ , white glove carefully raising to skim down a curved stem. 

It’s a carnation.

“Thank you for this.” 

She’s spent months in the Professor’s...unusual classroom, but she’s still unused to _this_ . Still unused to the way that Byleth Eisner interacts with the world, like she’s utterly on the outside of it--a feeling Edelgard...can _relate_ to, if she’s to admit in her darkest moments. Dorothea has muttered that the Professor’s stare is _unnerving_ , the way she stares right through her--the way she _sees_ them, without knowing them, at all. 

Dorothea claims that it’s eerily similar to how their tactical instructor sees a battlefield and where her friend finds this unusual, Edelgard finds this…

Comforting.

It’s a thought that might make her quietly laugh to herself, if she had any moments to herself to laugh. 

But time has passed since then, too. All of the Black Eagles have slowly come to rely on their professor and _understand_ her, in kind--she’s watched them grow closer; watched the ease with which the Professor disarms all of them so effortlessly, as if their hearts were lances and their fears were swords and their dreams and ambitions were a shield to rally behind amidst a volley of arrows. One by one she’s listened to the skeptical murmur of her classmates shift to quiet admiration and support. 

Byleth Eisner was the type of woman, unexpected and shattering, that people might go to war for. 

It’s...a desire for emulation, Edelgard assumes. She won’t be disarmed so easily. Not if she can’t allow herself to be, when the fate of Fódlan requires her to always be at the _ready_. 

And yet here, as unassuming and piercing as the Professor herself, a flower settles in golds and reds in the palm of Edelgard’s gloved hand. 

And Edelgard watches the way the afternoon sun settles blues like the ocean along her teacher’s hair--watches the way those eyes shift from the flower up to Edelgard’s own with no distraction inbetween--watches her become an ocean in the midst of a forest of barren trees…

And _~~False~~_ Goddess help her, she _blushes_. 

Her teacher just gave her _flowers_.

Before clearing her throat. “I’ll put this in water immediately.” 

The Professor simply nods before walking away, like giving Edelgard von Hresvelg a flower in the middle of the dining hall was the most natural thing to do and the blush settles along with weary, _heavy_ shoulders, if just for a moment, before the Emperor quietly lifts the flower up to her nose, inhales--

And smiles.

\--

 _'El,'_ Anselma's voice was always kind and soft and oftentimes follows Edelgard into the nights when other voices don't have the chance. The _calm_ nights, however fitful. ' _Do you think love can be like a flower? I love you like one, so fiercely that it might bloom.'_

Small stubby fingertips smooth up and down the soil, patting it so meticulously down as she's told, serious and calm and confident. 

' _Was father like a flower?'_

That laugh is something that settles on shoulders still like something warm and terribly missed, twisting and twisting deep in Edelgard's chest. So bright and so sad, now that she remembers it. 

That's how Edelgard had learned laughs to be from the time she learned to pat down soil: bright and sad.

' _No, definitely not. He was...different, then, but he was never like a flower. Maybe neither was I.'_

_'Mom?'_

All Edelgard remembers is the way her mother's features stilled and calmed as she looked out towards the cool steel of Embarr's garden poles, the flower beneath them eclipsed by her shadow and her fallen smile.

_'Mom?'_

Eyes wrench shut as she twists again, hip settling uncomfortably in the thin cadet mattress. It's more comfortable than steel, at least.

Not that that's exactly a resounding feat of success.

A quiet knock on the door furrows brows, raising up on elbows before she shifts forward, wondering if Hubert had word on--

"Professor." Confusion and surprise are not emotions Edelgard finds easy to greet, but they seem to have arrived on her doorstep as suddenly as her teacher. 

The scent of tea wafts into the room and Edelgard is surprised by a mug of it, carefully tended and halfway full, dark hue lost to near black in the darkness of her room.

It's floral scent seems like a stark contrast to the night air, especially when it's paired with an undeniable citrus undertone. Edelgard looks down at rumpled sleepwear before lips part and, surprisingly, the professor who normally says very little, beats her to the punch. 

(Then again, Byleth _was_ very good at beating people to punches. She was...an extraordinary teacher, and certainly a capable leader--

And, really, where did a mercenary learn how to brew such good tea? It only cements the belief that _nobility_ is not the only path to _good.)_

"I thought you might still have difficulty sleeping." 

Edelgard's lips press closed, fingers curving around the door. The wood feels cool in her sweaty palm. It's getting colder outside.

"We...don't have to talk. I just thought the tea might…" Byleth's own lips press, brows knitting and features...drawn tightly in confusion, like someone's pulled a string right at the center of her chest and everything else on her face seemed to follow.

It's an oddly beautiful expression when it's painted in moonlight.

"I would...actually appreciate the company, Professor." Edelgard finds herself saying even as she _feels_ Hubert's displeasure spread through the thin walls. 

Her teacher simply nods before pressing open the door...but not coming in. And after a gesturing nod towards a deserted hall, that's how Heir Apparent Edelgard von Hresvelg seems to find herself sitting in moonlight with the Professor of the Black Eagles in the gardens, dressed in inappropriate sleep wear. She takes a large, settling breath of night air full of citrus and flowers and wonders, for a moment, how the Professor knew she might need a change of scenery.

She no longer wonders, however, why she feels so at ease to talk to her about her mother until the thin hours of morning before slipping back into her quarters to change, no closer to sleeping prior to lessons, but feeling rested for the first time in months.

Byleth sees her--she sees all of them--even when night makes it too difficult to see anything, at all.

\--

The tents flap in the winds underneath Caspar's exuberant yells and Lindhardt's less than exuberant muttering for his companion to tie down the ropes so that he might crawl inside and sleep, the last tent to be pitched prior to the sun departing them like the Goddess had left the lands long, long ago. 

The last glinting rays of sunlight catches light off of the edge of a sword Petra’s cleaning, an impressionist painting of speckles of blood and dirt, as Dorothea's nose wrinkles at the sight of it. 

And Edelgard, for once, doesn't rally any of them.

"It's unlike you not to take the opportunity to tease Caspar into timely duties." 

Edelgard knows enough to know that Byleth is teasing her. A few months earlier and she might have assumed it was an honest critique. 

"Oh, yes." Edelgard laughs even though now all that memory arises is warmth on cheeks, not in her chest. "I was merely taking your advice on being more careful with my decisions and more accommodating with solutions. Maybe setting up Caspar's tent...three hours _late_ is not how I would do it, but maybe he's thinking critically in a way I haven't yet...even hoped to devise the meaning to."

"Or maybe," The tip edge of a sword buries deep into dirt like a trowel as Byleth eases off of the rough surface of a tree to lean against her sword's hilt, instead, their shoulders nearly brushing. "He's bad at it and Lindhardt is lazy."

"So why _not_ tell them to hurry, Professor?" It's a sincere question and, truthfully, if Edelgard hadn't been taken by the fields, she would have, herself. 

"Don't have to." A black cloak shrugs beneath a covered shoulder, blank face gazing out towards the endless rolling fields of green. "Life is sometimes the best teacher of all, Edelgard. Far better than me. And time is its lesson plan. They'll either pitch it in time or have to spend the night in the cold. That was always Jeralt’s plan and it worked well for me." A thoughtful look, "If this is considered working well."

Edelgard would argue Jeralt is a fine teacher, were her professor's skills any testament.

Byleth leans closer, one finger unfurling from it's grip around a well-worn hilt to point towards the clouds, explaining further the life lesson that awaited the boys if they didn’t get the tent up in time.

She doesn’t have to speak--Edelgard sees the dark clouds looming overhead for the first time.

And holds back a rare laugh.

"It's going to rain, tonight." Edelgard blinks in realization.

The professor of the Black Eagles is an extraordinary tactician, indeed, and if she hadn't known better, Edelgard might swear she spots the faintest twinkle in eyes. It sparkles like a gleam off of the pond outside of the dining hall, small and depths utterly deceiving.

"Life is a good teacher. So why are you here caught in a daydream, Edelgard?" 

Eyes turn back towards the field, watching the sunset paint a sea of crimson merletto carnations. 

"I guess I...was simply taking the time to smell the flowers, Professor." Edelgard likely looks as crimson as the carnations, herself, fingers tucking hair behind a reddening ear. "I rarely get to see them. I'm bashful to admit they're...my favorites, but they grow too far South of the diplomatic border for me to see at school. Where I was raised there was an entire meadow of them and...I haven’t seen them since I was a young girl, actually. I suppose I haven’t spent much time in the capital, outside of my youth. But the flowers there are also very old. I'm unused to seeing so...many _new_ ones."

Byleth doesn’t turn from Edelgard for such a long moment that she wonders, weakly, if her professor is trying to give her a lesson of time, as well. She doesn’t say anything, at all, nor ask any questions. She simply stands in front of a field of flowers by Edelgard’s side until the sunset before breaking away to help finish cleaning the weapons, leaning against a long tree stump outside of their camp before retiring for the night.

Edelgard wonders why the silence doesn't unnerve her.

“I suppose they’ll fall to frost in a few months.” The professor is looking over the field of flowers in the morning, dew and ice clinging to their petals.

Edelgard, remembering the way her mother’s fingers brushed through her hair, has a momentary weakness as a romantic instead of a realist: “This is Boramas, Professor. They'll never wilt,” Before once more returning to her tent.

But the smallest flash of curiosity on Byleth’s features, basked in the morning sunlight-- _captured_ in the sunlight like a tragic hero of war--stays with her long after the romanticism has felled.

\--

They all have vases in their rooms.

Most students who are female have theirs occupied solely thanks to Sylvain--an impressive effort of his wallet, truly, and it's no wonder he passes _any_ exams under Hanneman's tutelage with all of his time _preoccupied_ \--but all the members of the Black Eagles seem to have theirs full, as well. The season shifts and changes to the cold air of a story her mother always told her, when she was young, and Edelgard’s steps are quiet in the still night as she roams the halls in moonlight, peeking into the few cracked doors at this late hour to see which are still filled with their Professor's doting hands.

Most of the Eagles sport vases full of Daffodils, their bright yellow hues always vibrant, even at night. Even Caspar, whose room is...questionably tidy if squinting, keeps his proudly on the edge of his desk, and Linhardt on the edge of his bedside, where he might be able to lift up on tired arms and sniff them, Edelgard guesses. 

Dorothea gets roses-- ‘ _The professor gave them to me with a note that suggested I use them to make that handsome knight I’ve been eyeing jealous’--_

And Petra always has a vase of Sunflowers, blooming and large. They’re her favorite, Edelgard knows--the first flower the Brigid _captive_ saw upon arriving in Fódlan, where she immediately fell in love with them like a princess setting eyes upon a farmer. 

Though Edelgard has only seen Bernadetta’s room _twice_ in this year, she happened to see some...odd looking plant that she claimed snapped at things that she absolutely fawned over.

And Edelgard, the second week of every month, always receives a singular red carnation. 

She overheard Anna talking to one of the merchants, last week, about the fact that the Professor always spends all of her money in the stalls buying...odd things she always immediately gives away. Books and daggers and _jerky_ and _flowers,_ all of which she seems to pass along to students. She buys fish bait by the ton and likes to go through one of the merchant’s exotic seeds one by one by one, a curious look on her face as she flits through them before purchasing only a select few.

Given the scarcity the winter has brought in the West, the merchant wasn’t sure what the scavenged seeds were named--wasn’t even sure what they would produce or what she was looking for--but apparently the Professor has taken to planting them in the greenhouse, spending afternoons with her elbows deep in the brown of the earth with a barely curious look upon her features.

Some students in other houses wonder idly if this is an attempt to curry favor with them--to ease the transition and nerves of a new professor--but Edelgard has taken to watching Byleth in the gardens during the day and knows better.

Not that she’s watching her _intently_ but...she’s happened to spot her, a time or two. 

It's difficult _not_ to watch Byleth, when Edelgard spots her. 

And sure enough, elbows deep in soil, careful and tending, a serious look of concentration always settles on impassive features, but the Professor looks...calm, there. In the garden. 

It suits her, Edelgard often thinks now that she knows her--it seems fitting that Byleth Eisner is a gardener

It reminds her of how her mother used to look, quietly laughing in Enbarr, fingers curving around the red of a legendary flower. Before her laughter was bright and sad.

_Maybe if you love someone deeply enough, Edelgard, your love will bloom like a flower._

Edelgard wanders underneath the moonlight and wonders, for a moment, why her heart aches so deeply when for once her teacher doesn’t seem to wander into her path, as well.

She wonders, sometimes--

Does Byleth have trouble sleeping, too?

She wonders, sometimes, eyes closing as she feels the wind sift through her hair and leave as quiet as it came--

When Byleth sleeps, does she ever dream of flowers?

She wonders, and she wonders, and she _wonders,_ all about Byleth, thinking about her hands in dirt.

\--

"It must have been quite the change."

"I didn't really have any experience teaching." Byleth admits, fingers delved so deep into the ground her wrist is engulfed and when she pulls her hand up, dirt-caked fingernails are twined with weeds, quickly disposed of. "But I realized teaching isn't that different than plants. Or fishing." 

"Really?" Edelgard carefully wipes away the dirt from the nearby stone planter's box before sitting on top of it, "How is that?"

It’s become a bit of a routine, lately. What was once watching her professor garden from afar slowly shifting with each and every battle to...joining her. Normally, Edelgard merely watches, afternoons spent underneath the warm sun and bright, white walls of the greenhouse, but today--

Today Byleth’s hair falls in front of her eyes when she speaks and Edelgard barely resists the painfully obvious urge to lean forward and tuck it behind ears so that it doesn’t drag Earth into rivers of blue.

Her Teacher, of course, proceeds on without a single acknowledgement of Edelgard coming closer.

"You sew seeds. Different times--different places--they all have different seeds and different seeds have different temperaments." Another rough tug, weeds curling about soiled hands as Byleth shifts beneath the Earth. "You water them and you cut the things that harm them away and you help make it so that nothing can touch them and so that they can...grow. A plant can't always do that for itself. Sometimes…" She leans up a little on knees speckled with dirt, lips barely pulling downwards into a thoughtful scowl. "It needs someone else to shape it. And nourish it." Byleth looks up and Edelgard watches the sun paint blue with wisps of wind along its smile. "The seed when it’s buried--it’s always that plant, the one we see poking through the soil. It's just waiting for something to help it grow out of the thing holding it down and back."

"And…" Edelgard swallows, suddenly thick and uncharacteristically uncertain, eyes flicking away to settle on stone. "What plant do you think of me, Professor?"

Would she know to think of Edelgard like a weed, slowly spreading across Fódlan with intention of strangling its roots before creating something new?

Byleth seems to consider this, raising up onto her knees in the dirt, chin barely tipping to the side as she searches Edelgard's like she's familiar with them, herself. 

"I think you're a flower that will spread into a field, Edelgard." It's said so simply that Edelgard feels the air rush from her lungs, tipping upwards to take in her professor's stare. Not impassive.

It’s...stoic.

Honest.

Her great gardener--the one snipping away the vines threatening to twine their strangling hold up the length of Edelgard's neck and bind wrists against a table imbued with crests like discarded weeds.

The one who sees that there's something more there than prickling vines that draw blood, but a flower underneath, even if Edelgard isn't always so certain. 

Byleth sees a field, beneath the snow.

"Thank you, my teacher." Edelgard gently climbs into the box, careful with her steps, and Byleth gives her a curious look before something in features...relaxes. "And what are you?" After a few moments, gloves are carefully folded and set aside, scars soon masked by dirt, helping to till the soil with her bare hands in a way that might make her Uncle sneer. 

Good.

She’d forgotten what dirt felt like when she wasn’t grasping it to stand in the middle of battle. She’d forgotten how soft it could be, when cared for over time.

How soft this dirt Byleth's nurtured might be.

"A professor. Have you spent too much time in the sunlight, Edelgard?" There's that sparkle in eyes, again, and suddenly the student resists the urge to shove her teacher's shoulder for such a tease. Comfortable. 

They're both...comfortable.

Imagine that. Hubert would be most displeased.

 _Also_ good _._

"Not enough time to find your wordplay amusing, professor, I apologize." But Edelgard _smiles_ and she swears she sees it--the faintest quirk of lips at the edges before Byleth hums, lips once more pressed into their easy thin line. "But you're starting to sound like you're spending too much time with Good Alois."

The Professor frowns.

"That's just a low blow, Edelgard."

"My teacher has informed me that I should not reserve my punches regardless of my opponent."

Oh.

She hadn't simply imagined it. There it is...a smile. Clear as day--a... _smile_. Edelgard is _captivated_ , watching the slow way it settles on cheeks before once more disappearing like fingers into soil. 

She feels as if she's seen a sunrise, beautiful and lasting in memory far longer than it lasts in the sky.

Hubert would _certainly_ be displeased.

(Edelgard's heart quickens far too much for her to care).

"A wise teacher, then."

"Indeed."

They're quiet for a long moment, both of them calmly working in harmony in the garden, before Byleth speaks again, voice even as it arises to its conclusion:

"There's no use wondering what plant I am if I can be the dirt everyone else grows in, is there?"

Edelgard pauses. "Is that how you see yourself? As...dirt?" She’s close to being _offended_ on her dear Professor’s behalf, regardless of how measured her voice might seem. 

"No...and yes, I guess." Byleth raises up on knees, that dirt lining the intricate lace along knees. "As dirt." Her cheek dips, looking down along the tilled soil before nodding, "...and sheers and a trowel. Plants grow. I dig them and now I tend to them. Whether or not _I_ grow doesn't matter if all of you do."

Edelgard stops playing in the dirt.

Byleth thinks herself a tool. She thinks of herself as soil where all of them are seeds waiting to burst forth. She thinks of herself like a trowel or a _sword_ , as she has been her whole life.

Something someone else uses for a purpose until it's discarded.

The thought churns her stomach tauter than it should.

"I think you're a flower." Edelgard murmurs gentler than she'd ever intended, fingertips a fleeting touch upon scarred knuckles, reaching out to Byleth-- 

She imagines Byleth as a flower peeking through soil--brilliant and blue; _radiant_ in its beauty--casting shade over the harsh rays of a sun that might burst all of the other flowers aflame. Beautiful. Irreverent. _Protecting_ from the heat and snow, alike.

A flower, in the middle of a field of barren snow.

"Yes...a flower. You're the kind planted to help all of us grow, with strong roots that bolster us upwards."

When Edelgard looks up, Byleth is already staring with the most curious, unreadable expression.

The longest silence passes but Edelgard curiously doesn’t feel nerves, even as Byleth’s fingers flex beneath her touch. It should feel awkward, their fingers not twining or shifting beneath each other, simply stretched out across the dirt between them and held, suspended, in the sunlight.

It doesn't feel awkward, at all.

Byleth's hands are softer than expected.

"Thank you, Edelgard."

"...of course." Edelgard smiles, full of warmth, hand lowering back to the ground. "My teacher."

Edelgard hasn’t gardened since she was a child, her mother’s hair so long that her careful fingers had accidentally grabbed it amidst the dirt, Anselma’s laughter quiet and amused as she twisted El about in her lap so that she might guide her hands, instead.

She’s never gardened _alongside_ someone, before.

It’s...nice. Calming. 

They spend the rest of the afternoon digging in the dirt in content silence, the winds gently sifting through their hair.

And when they’re done, Edelgard turns away with a faint blush as Byleth dips a cloth in water and skims it beneath Edelgard’s trimmed nails to help carve away the dirt they've shared before sliding white gloves back up for her, thumb barely brushing along a scar about a dipped wrist as she does.

Byleth, looking satisfied and patting the top of her hands before standing and calmly walking away into the afternoon sun, like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

And Edelgard, patting the dirt with the tip of her glove until its edge turns black like she had as a child, bites her lip to keep her smile from spreading too wide.

\--

More students get roses, now, like there’s suddenly been an abundance of them in this month’s shipment to the merchants, but Edelgard soon finds out from Hubert’s humming tone (as he _holds_ a rose, looking both pleased and displeased at the same time) that these are the seeds the professor has been growing in the garden, not a shipment from the merchants.

The seeds Edelgard has unknowingly helped her plant and tend to, these past months. 

So Edelgard waits until training is over, the grounds quiet before she gently reaches up to catch her professor’s shoulder, lips pressing thin as she reminds herself that this is her... _duty_ as both House Leader and her professor's friend.

“...flowers have meanings?" The look on Byleth's face is horrendously curious in a way that makes Edelgard's stomach plummet deeper than a pegasus soaring through the clouds, hurtling towards the Sun instead of the Moon. The dip of a finger along that chin, showcasing an academic interest that might be swiftly applied with the Professor's blunt candor feels like the tip of a dull training sword pounding against an heiress' ribcage. 

Of course she's merely curious.

Of course she--

It was an idle dream to imagine that the shifting hues of the carnation assortment Edelgard has carefully kept and tended in her bedroom held any meaning behind it other than a...gift. 

A thoughtful gift. Nothing more.

(She’s been listening to Dorothea preen about what the different shades of carnations mean for _months_ , now, and Edelgard won’t admit that when her friend had dramatically gasped while plucking up a book from the library, pointing at the meaning of what a _variegated_ bloom means, when gifted in hues of red, that Edelgard’s heart had skipped a serious enough beat that she had debated seeing Professor Manuela to listen to it and make sure nothing had gone awry with her... _singular_ crest). 

Edelgard is uncertain whether or not Byleth knowing what it meant to hand out personally cultivated roses to her students--all students other than _her_ , it seems, by the number of them walking around with roses--

"You're unaware?"

"I just thought people liked flowers. They seem to make all of you happy." 

"If you didn't know the meaning--" It's a moment of weakness that propels Edelgard to ask, at all-- "Why did you get me carnations?" --And it leaves her weak when that ever-blunt, simple answer finds her with the faintest up-tuck of the professor's chin, gaze unwavering.

"Because they're your favorite."

"My…" A dry throat clears and hands shuffle as the future leader of Fodlan brings herself to her tallest height so that she doesn't fidget, even if she can't pull eyes away from the professor's intense stare. Edelgard never can. "My favorite?"

"You said as much outside of the plains of Boramas." Byleth says so simply. "Do you not remember?"

Boramas--

Brows knit before realization floods features, Edelgard standing just a little taller underneath the setting sun and Byleth’s unassuming, curious gaze. It’s...soft, in the light.

“I...suppose I forgot.” She still remembers, now, how Byleth had looked underneath that sunset, painted in hues of red and yellow like a carnation, herself, but had forgotten all about--

Edelgard remembers laying on the lump of her bedroll listening to the bundle of cold limbs that comprised both Caspar and Lindhardt outside of her tent snoring and shivering in the rain, staring up at the blank canvas of her tent and fighting the most childish urge to paint flowers with fingertips along the fabric. She spent the majority of that night not thinking about flowers, though, but realizing that Byleth's face was not as impassive as she had originally assumed. Watching a smile light a spark up at the edges of dark eyes as fingertips curved around Edelgard's shoulders. 

She remembers shifting in her tent and peeking outside to see Byleth in the rain, quietly setting a cover up above the boys shivering beneath it and kneeling down to cover them with her cloak before disappearing into her own tent.

She remembers the field of flowers her mother had spoken so fondly of and certainly remembers Byleth standing next to her, as she always has--

Months later Edelgard had forgotten the conversation, at all, and only remembered the curious look in Byleth's eyes above that tree stump.

And suddenly she understands Dorothea's utter frustration for months and months: this is what it’s like, isn’t it? To be disarmed. 

To be seen right through.

“I’m...touched you remember professor.” And Edelgard is, head barely bowing because _that_ holds more meaning than a dusty old book in the library ever will. Interpreted meanings of things--symbolism and power where it had no place to be--is what lead to the _Scriptures of Seiros_ , after all, and she should know her Professor well enough, by now, to know that the gift was both intentional...and held far more meaning than simple--

...love.

“That reminds me, Edelgard--come with me, I have a gift.” 

Edelgard, dutifully, follows behind, growing a little more curious when they come to her teacher’s quarters, dark and quiet inside. On her desk sits her own assortment of carnations in full bloom, regardless of the cold outside, light reds (admiration) and whites (luck) and dark reds (full love) and _variegated_ hues inbetween (regret for a love that cannot be). It’s a lovely assortment, and she’s taken by them, for a moment, before she realizes Byleth is lifting them off of the table. 

"They take a year to two to grow. _"_ It’s said so matter of factly and Edelgard, still so unused to being so _continuously_ flummoxed, stammers in response, heart suddenly _pounding_ in her chest.

"I--thank you, these are--two...two years?" A blink. A blush. Oh, Eagles take her, she was an _adult_ capable of _full sentences_ \--

She’s been giving her flowers for _months_ , why would this--

"They take one to two years to grow." Byleth unhelpfully repeats, not elaborating, until silence spreads and she seems to understand that her student doesn't follow. "They're planted in the greenhouse, now." 

For the second time, Edelgard’s been _struck_ by the idea that even without smiling, the sun lights up Byleth's eyes in such a way that any of her hesitation and restlessness unravels the knots it had made of her stomach. 

"Thank you." Edelgard's fingers skim reverently underneath the delicate flop of a petal, scared of something so fragile tearing underneath the rough callouses so used to swinging an axe. "I love it. What...caused you to plant them?"

Byleth’s head simply tips to the side, never looking from Edelgard as she nods down towards the full bloom: “None grow nearby.”

With great, horrifyingly exciting clarity, Edelgard remembers what had felt like such a thoughtless comment, easily forgotten.

"My teacher..." The calm tone the Emperor had spoken with has suddenly become so soft the wind might carry it away on her breath, surprise and...awe settling thick on her tongue in equal measure. It feels as if she has been out maneuvered in a battle she hadn't even known she'd enlisted in. "That conversation--carnations being my favorites. Telling you where they bloom--that was...that was months ago."

"Yes." Is all the professor offers in that enigmatic way of hers before nodding. "I remember, Edelgard. Did you not expect me to?”

"I...suppose not. Thank you. This is very thoughtful."

Edelgard reaches up towards her before a knowing hand falls to the side and Byleth seems to watch it for a long moment before nodding and stepping closer.

Calloused, cut fingers are warm as they pick up Edelgard's own before she...squeezes. The moment lasts a hitching breath before Byleth leaves--leaves Edelgard alone in her room with a full bouquet of flowers. 

Edelgard trims the tucking stems from the buds herself, that night, and proudly displays them on the edge of her desk so that anyone who might push open the door might see them. 

The snow has started to fall in thicker layers on top of the great mountain Garreg Mach settled upon long ago, and Edelgard wonders what love spread to make such a vibrant bloom in the middle of the cold.

She wonders it for months more until the world shifts and changes--she wonders it as Byleth kneels in front of her after choosing the darker path of all--she wonders it as, both of their hands covered in cuts and blood, they settle in the garden one evening, quietly sifting through dirt and tending to flowers--she wonders it as Byleth reaches over that night in snow that their knees have sunk into on the foot of that mountain and their fingers twine for only a moment before falling apart--she wonders it as The Great Beast lifts up its head and rains fire upon snow, melting all in its path--she wonders and wonders and settles heavily upon her bed, night heavy with no reprieve or tea to comfort her.

What love spread to make such a vibrant bloom in the middle of the cold? 

Edelgard wonders.

What lies were told and cultivated and burned into the air like dragon's fire--what lies had buried a flower, intent to take it away?

Fingers skim beneath the wilted bloom, water always filled.

The flowers she'd been given...

They’re dying and Byleth is no longer here to tell Edelgard how to tend to them.

\--

“Hey, Edelgard--” Caspar’s blunt fingertips are scratching at his jaw before vaguely gesturing towards the map, “Not that I don’t love it here, but shouldn’t we move towards Enbarr? Since it’s, y’know…” That gesturing hand curls fingers made for bursting through walls about a thin neck, rubbing a few moments _awkwardly_ before he finishes: “...the Capital?”

“We’re in the literal middle of the war, Caspar.” The Emperor addresses, the sound of her retreating footsteps causing him to scramble to follow. “This is the best strategic vantage point until we break the stalemate. And everyone is familiar enough with the mountains here to scale them to retreat, if need be. If we keep the fight in the Church and out of the Capital, we can minimize casualties.” 

“...oh.” Caspar nods, “That...makes sense. I just thought, you know--” He awkwardly clears his throat a little, “That maybe you were waiting for the Professor to come back, or--” 

Features highlighted by the afternoon sun turn as pale as the moon might be-- _ashen_ \--as she continues her stroll. “No, Caspar.” It comes out even and quiet, though hardly frustrated. The Professor’s loss isn’t solely her own. “It’s strategic, nothing more.” 

“Well...I like it here. It feels like... _home_ , you know?”

Edelgard pauses outside of the Greenhouse doors, searching familiar features--watching the way sweat has slicked up light, _light_ blue hair into the sunlight and dirt has molded it in place.

Caspar is getting older, isn't he? 

They all are.

Is this what war does to flowers? Sets them ablaze in the snow?

“Yes. I do.” And there might be a hint of a smile before she pushes open the doors, “Besides, Caspar...new flowers don’t grow in Enbarr.” 

“They don’t? I guess I never really noticed. Man, it’s...been a long time since I’ve been in here. Oh, wow, I didn’t realize that everyone was keeping it up. What are those?” He asks as Edelgard leans over to gently untuck a pair of shears.

And Edelgard gently tips up the smallest branch, offering a small smile to the flower below her. 

The carnations are finally grown into bloom.

"They're a gift, Caspar."

He shrugs and leaves her alone with her white walls and shears and a singular red flower.

It took two years to the date that Byleth had planted them and Edelgard is glad no one is in the greenhouse the first night she spots a stem and a bloom, because she cries.

There’s another cycle and half of their blooms until another set of hands skim along their petals, quiet and meticulous and as steady as Edelgard had remembered them.

Like no time had passed, at all.

Byleth, the Prodigal Professor, holds up a bouquet of carnations, hands bound from a recent swordslash, red seeping through tines of white around the green leaves she cups so delicately. If pain bothers the professor, it doesn’t show on her face.

Pain never does. 

Instead, Byleth simply holds up the bouquet in offering and certainly it’s been too long--certainly Edelgard doesn’t--

No, she’s _blushing_ . She can feel it. _Damn it._

 _Five years_ and she's _blushing._

“These are--” 

“Carnations.” Byleth answers, immediate and nodding, the flower petals drooping only slightly about bound fingertips. “I saw them growing in the gardens, someone had moved them there from the Greenhouse.”

“Is that so?”

“Why?” And in one word--Her Teacher, after all, was composed of so few of them, but all of them held weight and meaning--Edelgard knows that there’s no true secret on who’s been tending to the flowers. Lips barely purse and she stands taller, not about to be held down by the weight of her blush.

Or this sudden desire to be engulfed by the ground.

“I suppose there's no keeping secrets from you. Well, I…” Edelgard sighs, fingers skimming beneath the petal of one of the more vibrant combinations. “I didn’t want you to come back to see all the flowers you had planted had wilted away while you were gone.”

Byleth’s brows barely knit and she steps a little closer--close enough that Edelgard can smell the scent of dirt and blood and sweat upon her, and the faintest hint of...Bergamot she had brewed, specifically for a lunch they’d had a few hours prior. 

“I tried a lot of seeds before I planted these.” Those lips barely purse and Edelgard’s eyes flick down to flowers before settling upwards on eyes--on green, so steady. So calm. But there’s something...there. Something Edelgard _feels,_ in Byleth-- “I made sure these seeds were from that field in Boramas.”

“...what?” The statement visibly takes Edelgard by surprise, something she normally does a much better job hiding. It's a faint memory-- the story of Byleth sifting through seeds from the merchants and wonders--no, she surely-- “You mean to say…”

“I…” Byleth’s face contorts, a little, like she’s trying to speak through a language she doesn’t quite understand--like the words are foreign, or out of reach, and before Edelgard fully understands why, she finds herself reaching out to her shoulder. And feels it sag, just a little, at her touch. Soften. _Ease_. “Planted these so that you would always...have them nearby. And so that they wouldn’t wilt in the Winter.” 

Suddenly Edelgard’s mouth feels...dusty--dry. And when her tongue darts out over lips, she has the strongest urge to reach out to Byleth and _kiss her._

“Thank you for taking care of them, Edelgard.” 

But Edelgard doesn’t kiss her. Instead, fingertips trace along the swell of a bloom as she wonders if Byleth’s cheek is as soft as a flower’s petal. 

“Of course, my teacher. Thank you…” Eyes close and when they open, Edelgard's smile is helplessly sad, “...for planting them.” 

Byleth looks at her--not curious or impassive or any word Edelgard can fathom--she looks at Edelgard like she’s a word she can’t quite pronounce before she nods and walks away.

Like planting a field of flowers for Edelgard that would never die is the most natural thing in the world to her and Edelgard holds the flowers against her chest and wonders if her professor would join her next time she waters them, like they used to do so many years ago.

The thought makes her smile.

\--

“Byleth…” The use of Her Teacher’s name is rare-- _precious_ , perhaps--but it’s used carefully, now, nose catching on the scent of a full bouquet settled into her palm, “...do you know what day today is?” 

The final battle is upon them, but Edelgard has far more pressing things to attend to.

“No.” 

“It’s...the 14th of the Pegasus Moon.” 

“Oh.” Byleth’s head tips to the side. “Okay.” 

“...you don’t know what that date is, do you, Professor?” A hint of fond amusement, surprising, swells within Edelgard, fingers fondly tucking up the flowers between them. 

“You just said it’s the 14th of the--”

“I mean that you don’t know what the date _signifies_.” 

“No. I only keep track of the festivals and seasons on my calendar. I know everyone’s birthdays, but I...don’t know much about the holidays. We never celebrated them. I’ve been reading about them, lately.” Arms cross, looking curious and as honest as ever and Edelgard steps a little closer, gently untucking one of the flowers to slide it behind a mercenary’s ear, cheeks heating red but smile...settling. 

Byleth’s brows barely knit and that warmth only _grows_. 

“ _Today_ ,” Fingers linger for just a moment--only a moment--before they once more lower to a bouquet, “Is the day you bring flowers to the one you wish to marry.” Edelgard tries to explain as simply as she can, "In Fódlan, at least."

"It is?" Byleth shifts a little closer out of...curiosity, perhaps, but there's that warmth, again, and for only a moment Edelgard allows herself to be a small girl, once more.

“There’s this...tale about a farmer a thousand years ago who became a Prince. It was a frigid Winter that had lasted half a decade and one of the Adrestrian court mages saw that the land was heading towards ruin without any growing crops, so he was charged with casting a spell that would lift the snow from across the land so that the crops would grow--the only problem was that all magic, as you’ve taught me many times, Professor, can only be created by something already there.” 

“That’s true.” 

“So the mage saw a flower growing in the palace garden--brilliant and red--the only one that had survived, and wondered how it had grown. Something must have caused it to, if it were magic or nature. He asked all of the gardeners and the vassals--who planted this flower?--and none of them knew. He asked everyone...save for the Princess, who he came across one night fondly touching the flower in the gardens, watering it at night when it started to droop. He bowed and asked the Princess how long she had been tending to the flower, and she said that it wasn’t hers--that one day a farmer had come from South of Enbarr to trade in the Great City--he had very little money, and even less crops, but he came to offer the Palace flowers. The princess saw him and he stumbled and one of his flowers fell from his pocket and landed in the ground and it grew from there.”

“And she tended to it?” Byleth's eyes fall to the flowers in Edelgard's hands. The same ones Edelgard had tended in her wake, before raising up, gaze unwavering.

“Every day, hoping he would return. So the mage and the Princess traveled to the South of Enbarr to his small village through the harsh, cruel snow, and they were both stunned to find a sea of flowers blooming red. It was like a sunset before them, beautiful and warm, and the red color of them seemed to radiate as such, melting all the snow nearby. It was the first time they had seen grass in years. The Farmer, much older, had planted all of his seeds when he came home after the day he went to Enbarr, hoping to plant enough flowers to once more have an excuse to come back to the Palace and perhaps win an audience with the Princess. It was then the mage realized that in the moment the Farmer and Princess met, they had fallen in love.” 

“...I see. Is it always so quick in stories?" But Byleth's eyes haven't dropped from Edelgard and gloved fingertips skim innocently down the stem of a flower aching up towards the sun's warmth.

“Most of them, I believe."

" _Is_ love always so fast?" Her teacher is asking her truly, now, and Edelgard remembers long dark hair and knees tucked up to her chest as hands smoothed down her own, pressing them into soil.

"I think love is quite like a seed, or a flower. It needs time to grow, but the moment it falls into the earth with a...look, or a word, there's always a chance it might bloom." The blush that creeps up her cheeks is undeniable, more embarrassed by the sentimentality than the truth of what might take so many years to bloom, like a carnation. 

Like the flowers she'd tended in Byleth's wake.

"I think you're right." Byleth sounds quiet...gentle and Edelgard wonders when she came so close and why she doesn't seem to mind. "So what did the mage think?"

"The mage, in true form relying on the Church at the time, hypothesized that flowers were a sign of the Goddess’ true love, so instead of casting a spell, he let the magic do its own work. He tasked everyone in the land with planting a flower and growing it with the intention of giving it to the ones they love so that it would bind them like the Earth to a flower’s stem, united. So flowers of all different kinds came to bloom across all of Adrestria--all of _Fódlan_ , then--and eventually the snow melted. But in the south of Enbarr was a sea of red flowers that are still there to this day, lovingly tended by the Farmer for his Princess. They never wilt since their love never died. My...mother always told the story far better than I do.” 

“I think the story is lovely, Edelgard.” Byleth is quiet for a few moments before her hand reaches up to the flower in her hair before lowering down to the bouquet, brows knitting, “Those flowers South of Enbarr...they’re carnations, aren’t they?” It’s a calm question--more of a statement than an inquiry, really--and the faintest tinge of pink spreads up Edelgard’s neck to her cheeks. She can feel it.

She's _still_ blushing.

“...yes.” 

“Do you know why I planted those carnations here, Edelgard?” 

“No, Professor. I...admit I don’t. I have my suspicions, but--”

“Because they’re your favorite.”

“That’s what you told me when you said why you gave them to me. Are you...saying that you only planted them so that--” 

“I planted them so that you could have flowers like you had in Enbarr. You sounded…” Byleth doesn’t struggle with words, but she seems to think on them for a long moment before she settles on, “...homesick. I didn’t know what that felt like, but I thought the flowers might help.”

“...they did.” Edelgard murmurs, “I suppose...not so much with reminding me of my home as they did make me... _feel_ at home.” 

“Good. It’s...interesting.”

“What is?"

"That story." 

"It is. It was one of my favorites--" Edelgard pauses, lips pursing when Byleth reaches forward and plucks one of the carnations calmly from the bouquet. "I--"

"I'm connected to everyone I've given flowers to. Maybe there's truth in some legends." Byleth states simply and Edelgard's speech falters, words feeling thick within her throat. This uncertainty has always been - “What happened?” 

“The flowers are still--”

“To the Princess and the Farmer.” Byleth clarifies, look...inexplicable. Unreachable. Like Byleth, for a moment, is in the clouds high above her, green eyes the shade of a tree so high Edelgard might never scale it. 

“They...married. That was my _very_ distant grandmother and grandfather." The thought settles deeply on her chest and she breathes something shuddering and quiet, regaining her composure. "So when you give someone a flower today, that’s what is implied in Adrestria. Not necessarily a proposal, but...that you would like to spend your lives with them. Although I suppose it might be considered both, in many circumstances.”

“I don’t think it would be bad to spend my life with all of the people I've given flowers to, today.” Byleth’s fingers raise to her chin as it dips--as she looks at Edelgard so...accessing. And then, uncharacteristically, almost... _falters_.“What...does it mean to give someone a carnation? You told me, once, that flowers have different meanings.” 

“Oh.” Edelgard looks down at the carnations settled in her hand before looking back upwards--before taking in that beautifully cryptic look in Byleth’s eye--and...placing it. Finding no small amount of comfort in it. Familiarity. Where those piercing eyes were once water, they’re now the shade of the leaves offshoot from a branch, and Edelgard, on occasion, is struck by how _much_ she missed looking into them for far, far too long. They’re far more distracting than the carnation dancing along Byleth’s chin, held. Waiting. “I suppose that flowers could mean many things on today, now that I think of it. Some might mean...a lifetime of friendship or loyalty. Commitment. But a carnation...is a _proposal_ of marriage. Or at least that's what it's come to mean in The Empire. But as you know, it’s my favorite, as well, so I accept the gift regardless of the intention and the date.”

“I see.” Byleth’s tipped head looks askew at Edelgard for a long moment, quiet. And then she slides the flower she’s been holding expertly between the crook of Edelgard's ear and her hair, dipping down beneath a crown. Her expression...inexplicable as it always is, but Edelgard's heart seems to helplessly race, all the same. There’s a softness in Byleth’s touch--in the hand that barely skims down her ear and skirts along her cheek, empty, now, without a flower to keep it rigid. “I’ll give you the proper flowers in a year, then, Edelgard.” 

But for once Edelgard isn’t disheartened by this thought, because sitting on the edge of Byleth’s lips is the ghost of a smile, knuckles skimming down to her chin before that gentle touch has fallen away.

“I...look forward to it, My Teacher.”

And with a nod like something's been settled, Byleth simply walks away, like offhandedly proposing to Edelgard had been the most natural thing in the world and Edelgard, blushing the same shade as a sea of carnations, raises white gloves to lips to hide her spreading smile.

In a year to the date, Byleth’s eyes catch blue in the sunlight and her hands, covered in dirt from a singular red carnation she had sewn from the Earth, herself, curve around a stem of green, that loving, quiet heart pattering between them. 

This flower Edelgard accepts with a spreading smile and a lingering kiss, carnation cradled between them as cold air settles a blanket of white about their feet. 

Ring curved about the bend of her finger and brilliant red pressed beneath a crown in her hair, _happy_ laugh breaking against the smallest of smiles.

“I remember," Edelgard recalls, ungloved fingers slipping a flower of her own into a wonderfully blue mane of unkempt hair, tangled with snow. "That I felt you were a flower that would make other flowers grow.” Byleth looks at her curiously before she smiles and dips down to kiss her, again.

It seems they both take it as it should be, regardless of the ring worn faithfully on Edelgard's finger: a yes.

\--

The snow hangs off of the edges of the trees, drooping down hefty branches until they bend beneath the haughty weight.

A fire crackles in the hearth, wrinkled hand raising up to skim along a soft, barely aged cheek. 

Tales of Faerghus' War would spread for millenia in operas and ballads and novels but far more than one story would be immortalized, ageless, until it was returned to Time like all things. The tale of the eagle and the demon would be sung in lively jigs at weddings, laughter rousing at their great Emperor Hresvelg, The Free Queen of Fódlan not in jest, but in celebration. A love song, romantic, tradition becoming immortalized. 

The legend has it that so many loves were lost in the Reuniting War of Fódlan that a harsh winter came upon the land, an old legend often whispered about the frigid tundra that was their home millenia ago, without the Goddess’ light. But the Emperor simply pointed to a field where an endless sea of carnations bloom--an unassuming, _hearty_ flower. In most countries, they bloom only in the starting Spring months, but in Fódlan, there are places where they bloom year round.

Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg, last of her line, is oft quoted in history, but one quote on the winter lands befalling Fódlan is referred in many dramatized retellings of her own romantic life.

'I think there are many truths to Legends, but what we take from them is more important than the Power they could have over us. Love should not be divided by nobility or class, but found in those brave enough to give themselves to it. That is what my dream for Fódlan is: a place of Peace, Unity, and Love. Equality and Respect are not so far off from love; if a farmer and a princess can find love like my ancestors, why can’t Fódlan find love amongst itself and bloom like a brilliant field of flowers?'

In the center of Garreg Mach in the fields stands a sea of red flowers that grew despite a great frost and a war--that grew into Enbarr and spread from the South of the capital across the land.

The Winter has come cold as fingertips smooth up to Edelgard's palm, slotting hands between spaces where cold had been before, replacing it with warmth. Heat. A calm, small smile that brushes along a cheek. 

The vase sets down on the edge of the table, full carnations in bloom as the snow settles down peacefully outside of the window.

"I'll always love these." Edelgard decides, voice a little weaker than it was years before, fingers skimming along white strands of hair that used to be blue and green and, occasionally, black from soot. "Like someone else."

"You don't keep me in a vase." Lips twist upwards, smile wider than it once was, fire gently crackling behind them as Edelgard shifts enough for familiar arms to guide her against a warm chest and strong arms. 

"If I had, I’m sure it would be easier to water and feed you."

“ _I’m_ certain that would drown me.” A thoughtful look, “But I guess there’s worse ways to die. But only if you're with me. We'll die side by side in a swell of Saghert and Cream.”

El laughs--not a hint of sadness clinging to her curving smile.

"As long as we're side by side, My Teacher."

In a handful of years they'll fall peacefully in their beds, a death their letters would attest to never believing they would have. Most thought, after all, that they would die on the front lines--as both of them had led their lives. The Emperor falls to the Goddess’ tree first and Legend claims the Empress' heart, tethered to the wilting flower in Edelgard's palm held from the last Pegasus Moon, simply stopped beating the moment both flowers shed their petals as she settled down next to her in smooth red sheets.

Magic required something to already be there, after all--how was a heart to beat without love tethered to it like a flower in the Earth?

They'll be buried in an empty field outside of Garreg Mach, although no one is certain why, where carnations bloom in two years reaching towards the sunlight like fingertips. 

Every year in Adrestria, before and long after the Emperor and Empress’ deaths, a festival is held in Pegasus Moon for the gift of flowers, though this, too, is eventually returned to Time. Like all else.

But one day, when castles are ruined and fields are lost and all that remains of Enbarr are old buildings buried deep in the caverns below, built of stone and steel and covered in so much endless dirt that they might resemble the roots of a tree, three flowers will stay planted in the green hills high above. 

It ends much like it started--with a seed, and flowers.

But that’s years away--all of time, it seems, is years away--and tonight they simply share a smile and watch the snow, fingers twined and teeth tucking lips.

Shaking hands slide a red flower behind an ever-listening ear, stolen from the vase she'd been gifted. 

Byleth Eisner, it seems, has come to learn about the meanings of such things from Edelgard von Hresvelg, and simply kisses her knuckles before murmuring against them:

“Always.”

And Edelgard, surrounded by warmth and a calm smile in the midst of so much cold far away, falls asleep with the flowers they’ve tended to in the gardens and Byleth wrapped around her like a warm cloak in the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please feel free to let me know what you think.
> 
> Prompts/requests: [ Tumblr ](https://notoriousjae.tumblr.com)
> 
> Y'all are rockin'
> 
> Jae


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